Someone's Someone
by b-mystique
Summary: "Mymy" a tiny brown hand smacks Michael across the face, and it makes him chuckle. Maybe he found the love of his life after all. Maybe Cyrus can teach him how to be someone's someone."Moments between Cyrus, Michael, and Ella as they figure out how to become a family. Angst/Drama/Humor/Fluff. Cyrus/Michael pairing. Michael/Ella brotp


_**A/N:** Ummm, I don't really know what this is to be honest. I don't even know where it came from. I guess this can be based off of "Put A Ring On It" because I really like Michael and I love little Ella, and in a weird, twisted, warped sort of way…Ella, Michael, and Cyrus could be a really cute family. Don't judge me. Reviews are welcomed though._

 _ **Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters or the show. I'd totally call dibs on Ella and Michael though, because they both are adorable cupcakes. Unbetaed._

 **~o~o~o~**

"Thank you," he whispers softly. He doesn't get much of a response at first and he tries not to feel awkward about it. They're already in an awkward enough position as it is.

Cyrus doesn't look at him.

"I mean, for...for before," he whispers again. "You didn't have to stick by me. I know... I know you were probably planning to ditch me. And you didn't have to promise me..." he pauses as 30 lbs. of cuteness stirs in his arms. "You didn't have to promise anything before, so thank you Cyrus."

Cyrus merely regards him with an expression he can't quite decipher and nods. He pulls out his cell phone and begins fiddling with the display. He realizes that Cyrus Beene is uncomfortable. He's made the curmudgeon uncomfortable, and the awkward fiddling reminded him of the broken but sweet man he met weekly in hotel rooms.

He likes to think that that man still exists. That he's buried beneath the self-professed monster that Cyrus dons like armor. He caught a glimpse of him before their nuptials. The man he genuinely liked and cared for. The man who was one of his favorite clients, before he was introduced to the man he more often than not referred to as Satan. Cyrus offered him something he longed for, safety, security, the opportunity to not be alone. He offered him partnership, the chance to finally have someone in his corner. It wasn't love. It wasn't everything he dreamed of. He subjected himself to so much...sacrificed so much, just to be himself, just to have a chance to be happy, just to be loved, to finally be loved. He just wants someone to actually give a damn. This situation he has found himself in isn't ideal, but it is reality; a reality he can actually make work. Maybe he hasn't found the love of his life, but maybe he does have a partner, and maybe even a friend. He thinks despite the fight Cyrus puts up, he may actually care about him, so maybe he found that too.

"Mymy," a tiny brown hand smacks him across the face, and the sudden assault makes him chuckle lowly.

Maybe he found the love of his life after all.

"Mymy," she mutters again as she nuzzles her face into his shoulder and tightens her grip around his neck.

Cyrus wasn't the most welcoming upon his arrival, but little Ella sure was. She took to him like a fish takes to water, running up to him smiling with cherubic cheeks and a bouncy puff of curls on top of her head. She couldn't quite pronounce Michael, so a shortened version sufficed until 4 tea parties and 12 bedtime stories later he became "Mymy" _her_ Michael. As pathetic as it may seem he was never anyone's before, so it warmed his heart that he could finally belong to someone, even if that someone was a toddler. He was hers.

"Shhh Ella-bee, I'm here," he whispers as he presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "You're almost..." his face flushes as he feels and then sees the piercing gaze Cyrus gives him. He manages a small smile before averting his eyes.

"We're almost home." Cyrus finishes for him as the limo turns down Cyrus'… _their_ street.

~o~

"Dammit!" Michael swears loudly.

A loud thump resounds through the wing of the house followed by a long string of vulgar words that should never have been able to be paired together. Cyrus' eye twitches. He peeks back into Ella's room, but she doesn't stir. He storms down the hall towards Michael's room and doesn't bother to knock on the slightly ajar door before shoving it open and looming in the doorway.

"Keep it down!" He hisses. He narrows his eyes at the young man, white button down rumpled, dark hair in disarray, papers and books strewn throughout the bed. Michael's laptop is balancing precariously on his bouncing knee, as he burns holes through the screen with his eyes.

"You didn't knock," Michael snaps back. His heated dark gaze meets Cyrus' briefly before he brings his attention back to whatever godforsaken thing was happening on the screen that had him so preoccupied at one o'clock in the morning.

"It's my house. I don't have to knock." He scowls at the younger man. "I don't care what the hell you're in here doing, as long as you don't wake Ella. It took me a half hour to get her to sleep."

"You mean back to sleep?" Michael mutters under his breath. "I put her down first." Michael's eyes never left the computer screen.

"What difference does that make?" He growls. "Just keep it down." He turns on his heel and heads for the door before Michael's voice made him pause.

"Close the door on your way out, please."

He is momentarily irked that Michael not only seems unfazed by how gruff he is being, but that the kid is giving as good as he is getting. It's a side to Michael that he isn't quite accustomed to.

"What is your problem?" He glares at the kid, waiting for a response, beyond the manic typing on the keyboard and shuffling of papers. He's not sure why he's asking the question. He doesn't really want to know. Asking at all implies that he cares, and he really doesn't. So he finds it disconcerting that Michaels's pointedly ignoring him in favor of whatever has him hammering away at the keyboard.

"Michael-"

"Cyrus, I don't have the time for this." Michael responds coldly. A tuft of dark hair falls into his face. He glances at the alarm clock and swears.

He pins the dark hair man with a glare until he hears the low, annoyed growl.

"I lost six pages of a draft for a proposition I have to turn into my professor tomorrow, and I have an oral presentation on the subject matter in a few hours. I am nowhere near prepared for it."

"I thought you were good with oral," he quips back, before the sliver of conscience he has, kept him from opening his mouth. If looks could kill, he would have been dead, buried, and having a few drinks with Satan in hell. "Why didn't you just work on it earlier?" He curses himself internally for asking questions like he genuinely gave a damn.

"I had an appointment with a potential client," Michael mutters under his breath, as a thick textbook gets shoved aside in favor of a thicker pile of paper.

He tries to take the response in stride. He's been trying to take into consideration his heart condition before he flies off the rail, since James was no longer there to monitor it for him.

"An appointment with a potential client?" He echoes, with malice and disbelief. He shoots daggers at the kid, his fists clenched.

"You must have gotten the wrong message, when I took pity on the pathetic, gay, _whore_ whose daddy doesn't love him anymore…"his tone is mocking at best, and Michael's jaw clenches in response. "You defy me, break the terms of our extended contract, so much as breathe out of place and I will _destroy_ you, Michael! And I'll sleep like a baby when I'm through." He laughs coldly and glares at the dark-haired man. "If you so much as take it any fu-"

"A, potential business client for the company I've been interning with. It was a business dinner. I was obligated to attend. We _whores_ are really good at schmoozing, you know," Michael interrupts and growls through gritted teeth. "It's something you would have known about if you ever had a conversation with me beyond stats on Ella-bee," his voice was severe, as was the dark look upon his face. "But, thank you, for reminding me of my place." Michael glances at the clock quickly and turns tired eyes back to the computer screen. "Now, as I recall, your place is on the other side of the house."

He almost laughs at the bold dismissal. Warmth flairs up in the pit of his stomach before he shakes his head and walks out. The kid had bite. He shuffles to his room and flops on the bed, hoping sleep will come quick, but it doesn't. He tosses, turns, lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling but sleep refuses to come. He swears, as he realizes that his conscience might be kicking in and he feels a little bit bad, about jumping to conclusions. He hates when his body suddenly reminds him to be a good person.

A half hour later, he finds himself outside of Michael's room with a pot of fresh brewed coffee, and two coffee mugs. He smiles slightly at the deep purple mug with the faded emblem, which used to be James' favorite. Sentimentality was for children and fools, but some days he found himself using the mug anyway because it made him feel closer to his deceased husband. It helped him feel less guilty.

He doesn't knock. It is his house after all, but he has the right mind to avert his eyes when an exasperated Michael looks up at him questioningly. He fills the mugs and adds the appropriate condiments. He doesn't care for the kid, but he always pays attention. He sets the pot and mugs on a nightstand and shoves a heap of books and papers over to make room for himself on the bed.

"What are we doing here," he says gruffly. He has to keep from smiling when Michael freezes beside him. The younger man looks like a damn shocked basset hound, with sad droopy eyes, with just a hint of dubiousness in his expression. His mouth drops like a goldfish as he's seemingly trying to figure out how to respond.

"Jesus, close your damn mouth and tell me what you need me to do," he mutters under his breath. He shifts in the bed and ignores Michael's gaze. "Before I became Satan on Earth, I used to be a law professor. Although some people could argue that's one in the same." The corner of his mouth turns up at Michael's quiet chuckle. "I'm no stranger to deadlines and orientations, so tell me how I can help you before I change my mind."

Michael stares disbelievingly at him for an immeasurable amount of time, before he explains his project. They work peacefully for hours. He notes how smart Michael is, how assured and at ease the man became the second he felt less overwhelmed by it all. For hours they rotate refilling coffee mugs and piecing together both the presentation and the proposal.

He barely notices when the birds start chirping and the sun rises outside of the window. He's just putting the final touches on the presentation when he looks over and sees Michael passed out on a stack of papers. He's snoring softly, and his dark hair is tousled, and if possible he looks even younger and more innocent than he ever looks when he's awake. His heart warms a little, and he doesn't want to think too much about what that means for him. He slides the laptop from beneath the man's fingers, and puts it on the nightstand. Michael doesn't move. He glances at the clock, Michael has about two hours before he has to get up and get ready for his class. He eases off the bed, sets the alarm, and tiptoes towards the door. When he looks back on Michael spread across the bed and snoring, this time he doesn't bother hiding his smile.

He has about an hour before Ella wakes, so he heads to the bathroom for a shower.

~o~

He never thought that public dating could be so exhausting. Admittedly, he never got to date much with his occupation. He met guys, and he had sex, but his romances were far and few in between. He always thought he would have more time. Once he got his life right and earned enough money….he just thought he would have more time.

Now, he's not sure what he has. He has…Cyrus. He has Cyrus and the honor of being dragged out to random dinners and parties and outings and having cameras shoved into his face. He's not used to it. He's not sure if he can ever be used to it.

He collapses into the leather armchair with a tumbler of Scotch. His eyes are already heavy as he stares, transfixed by the flames in the fireplace. He's not sure if he's officially drunk or just significantly buzzed, but he knows that it takes a certain amount of liquid courage to make it through a four hour White House gathering while pretending to be the love of Cyrus Beene's life. His cellphone vibrates for what has to be the twentieth time that evening and he ignores it without so much as glancing in its direction.

"Are you ever going to respond to that thing?" a brusque voice floats over him, and he feels the warmth of Cyrus' presence as he stands over the armchair for a few moments. He chuckles to himself. He would never in a million years guess that Cyrus had a warm presence. Now an icy cold chill would be more apt.

Cyrus steps from behind Michael, walks across the room, and falls onto the loveseat. He eyes him a bit warily, and it's only then that Michael catches a glimpse of the Cyrus he usually likes best. This Cyrus is the awkward, slightly broken older man who somehow has a gentle soul if you do some serious digging….and diving…and hunting…honestly, you have to send out a search party, but it's there nonetheless. Awkward, gentle Cyrus was easily one of his favorite clients. He snorts, before taking another sip of his Scotch. That seemed so long ago.

"You laughing at me?"

There is something in Cyrus' voice that keeps him from making a joke. There is a vulnerable edge to it. He eyes the tumbler in Cyrus' hand and surmises that the older man has had a significant amount to drink that evening. There is a certain ease that comes with too many drinks.

"No," he says honestly. "I wouldn't laugh at you." He may be mistaken, but he sees a faint blush across Cyrus' cheeks. He definitely sees, and feels, the penetrating gaze Cyrus subjects him to. It's unnerving and disarming. He takes another sip to relieve himself of the scrutiny. His phone vibrates again, and this time he shuts it down.

"Who keeps calling you?"

"Not another guy, if that's your concern," He says evenly without much thought. Admittedly he is aggravated and he's not up for Cyrus making another dig about his former life or implying something.

"I know," Cyrus says quickly, confidently. "I was just…I could…if you need me to…" Cyrus clears his throat and gestures at the phone.

He softens a bit when he realizes that Cyrus was actually making a kind gesture in his own way. He's offering to help take care of the situation if need be. He eyes him warily, but part of him is touched by the gesture. Maybe, that's what inclines him to pursue a conversation when he otherwise would rather be left alone.

"It's my mother," he says quietly.

"I wasn't…uh, aware that you and her were speaking again," Cyrus manages as casually as he can. He doesn't look casual though. He looks a bit uncomfortable, and maybe a bit constipated, which he recognizes as the face Cyrus makes when he's genuinely trying to make an effort to be…normal.

"We aren't." He responds coolly. He finishes off the Scotch and pours himself another refill, offering the rest to Cyrus, but the older man declines. "She's on a cruise with my father. She's calling to make sure that…" he pauses and clenches his jaw before staring Cyrus right in the eyes. "She's making sure that their next stipend is deposited…" his voice trails off and Cyrus nods in understanding.

The silence between them is a rather comfortable one after that. It's only when he sees Cyrus shifting in his chair, does he get the feeling that the man is working up to saying something.

"How long did you have to go to…?" Cyrus' voice trails off, and it's softer than he's ever really heard it. "What did they do to you…there?" He asks. He's scrutinizing him again, and he's donning that same broken look that he used to have whenever he talked about his late husband.

He slams back his drink all at once, and masks a strangled sob by clearing his throat in an attempt to keep from crying. His hand grips the armrest, hard, and he can feel the intensity of Cyrus' gaze on him, but he can't quite meet his eyes.

"I went there for two years, until my parents decided that it wasn't worth the money anymore. And it was a religious conversion/intervention therapeutic practice. They did…" he chokes a bit but tries his best to finish. "They did everything you can imagine that they did, and much, much worse." His head is pounding and his vision is blurry and he finds himself staring at the fireplace again and trying to regulate his breathing. Those two years were worse than his worst nights out on the street, and he had some damn horrific nights on the street.

"You were brave," Cyrus says after a bit. He's being genuine and he can hear the admiration and the inevitable pity in his voice.

"I was a terrified child," he grinds out through gritted teeth.

The silence between them this time is heavy and solemn. He tries fiercely to keep the tears at bay, and Cyrus is seemingly attempting to avoid eye contact as he reverts to his awkward inner self.

Only when Cyrus gets up from his seat and heads for the door, does he allow himself to silently cry. The tears stream down his face and he bows his head, but he refuses to make a sound. He's not aware of the presence behind him until he hears Cyrus' voice.

"We have dinner tomorrow," Cyrus says quietly.

He wants to respond, because he doesn't have another stuffy public event where he has a dozen cameras stuck in his face and he's forced to smile, in him. He's afraid though, that if he so much as makes a sound the floodgate of tears will become full on sobbing, and he refuses to allow anyone, especially Cyrus Beene witness that.

"Just us," Cyrus says softly as if he can read Michael's mind. "I promise. No cameras, no outside forces. No optics. Just a quiet dinner between," he pauses, and it's evident that he still isn't certain how to describe their relationship. "Just between two friends." Cyrus says, and the silent conviction that comes with the declaration is enough to make more tears fall.

"You…you are brave. Braver than a lot of people I know. Certainly….certainly braver than me," Cyrus says gruffly. He feels the older man's hand rest on his shoulder and give him a quick squeeze. For a moment, he thinks he feels a stroke against his hair before Cyrus leaves the room, bidding him a good night.

~o~

It cannot be said that he isn't grateful for having his daughter. Granted, he didn't exactly want a child, and had no plans of having one, but Ella has made him a better person. Infinitesimally, but a better person nonetheless. In the darkest days after James was killed, she was one of the only things that kept him really going. He felt like he owed it to James to take care of her properly. But there are certain moments, when he's reminded of his initial stance of never wanting children. Those moments, like the current moment, usually involve Ella crying incessantly at three o'clock in the morning, with no regard whatsoever for the fumes he was running on due to four nights in a row of dealing with Mellie, Fitz, and Olivia bullshit.

The crying persists and he throws the baby monitor across the room. He's pretty sure the batteries have popped out at this point, because the static and cries are replaced by muffled wailing from a distance. He drags himself out of bed and shuffles towards the door.

He's too old for all of this. If his bad ticker kills him, it won't be from the job. It will most likely be from too many tackle-hugs, horsey-back rides, reading "The Princess and the Frog" for the two thousandth time, or attempting to put what the YouTube tutorials told him was a 'tender-headed' African-American girl's super thick, super curly, super unruly hair into a presentable afro-puff. His own hair is a goddamn mess ninety percent of the time, and Olivia just laughed at him when he cast their frenemy games aside and asked for advice, so YouTube has been his friend. It's clear now, that he'll do anything for the little girl because no one, not even someone as despicable as him should be subjected to the comments section of a YouTube link. By the time she reaches junior high, he'll be paying Charlie to take care of any boy, or hell, any girl, who so much as makes a move on her. He's not used to dealing with feelings and children, and having his own child brings up a smorgasbord of them, including weird combinations like being extremely pissed off but also concerned when his daughter's wailing in the middle of the night.

It's only then, he realizes that he doesn't hear her crying anymore. That concerns him more than it does comfort him. He picks up his speed and rushes across the hall until he's right outside Ella's door. He's just about to wretch it open when he hears low humming. He pushes the door open gently and sees Michael in the rocking chair by Ella's bed. She's burrowed into Michael's chest, her little head resting against his heart and her hand fisting at his shirt. A puff of curls smack Michael in the face with each rock, and Cyrus secretly curses out the nanny for not braiding Ella's hair like he specifically told her to, before putting her to bed. Detangling it would be a bitch in the morning.

Michael's eyes are closed, as he hums some sort of lullaby and rocks Ella gently. When her breathing appears to even out, he sees Michael open an eye and squint down. He stops humming and is just about to make a move to put her down, when her big brown eyes pop open and she shakes her head.

"Again, Mymy," she murmurs softly, her eyes drifting close.

Michael chuckles, and it's the only time Cyrus sees him genuinely look happy and carefree. "Alright Ella-bee," Michael sighs, his voice deep and thick with sleep. He drops a kiss to the top of her head and tightens his grip around her "Last time." He begins humming quietly.

He's not sure how long he's been standing there watching them, but it dawns on him after a bit that they both have fallen asleep. Ella's soft snoring is muffled, and Michael's head has fallen back against the headrest of the rocking chair. His hair is tussled and his mouth is open, and he's possibly snoring too. It's truly a photographic moment, if he were so inclined to appreciate that sort of the thing. But he was never one for sentimentality and he's trying not to become one now. He eases into the room as quietly as he can, and stands over them, as he tries to figure out how to extricate the toddler from Michael's arms without waking either of them up.

He makes his move after a bit. He's come to discover that he has to move fast and not overthink it. He manages to get her up and slide her into her bed without her so much as stirring and he's internally doing a victory dance when he feels Michael's bleary gaze on him.

"Sorry Cyrus," Michael whispers. "I was trying to get her settled down before she woke you."

There's a genuine concern in his voice that simultaneously warms and perplexes him. He still doesn't understand why good people bother caring about him at all. He is a monster, after all. Most days he can't quite bring himself to care about anyone else outside of himself, but when he makes a conscious enough effort he can be loyal-ish.

"I, uh, may have gotten her a little hopped up on ice cream when we were out celebrating earlier, so I feel a bit responsible," Michael jokes quietly.

The younger man's eyes break away from his for a brief second to rest on the toddler. There is a reverence in his eyes that Cyrus sort of envies, and he's not sure if it's because he's selfish enough to miss looks like that directed at him, or because he feels guilty that he doesn't share that same reverence for his own child.

Michael has the right mind to look a little guilty and abashed when he flashes him a sheepish grin, that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle. He doesn't bother telling him that he saw pictures of them out earlier. He doesn't why there's still interest in keeping tabs on their lives in an attempt to prove that they are every bit the fairytale couple that they pretend to be, but he knows how uncomfortable it makes Michael. He reasons that an uncomfortable Michael gives him something else to fix, because it certainly isn't a matter of him actually giving a shit. He doesn't give a shit. But he laughed a little when he saw a picture of Michael walking around town with Ella on his shoulders, and he may have smiled a bit when he saw the picture of Ella offering Michael her ice cream cone and him obliging. Ella likes to share. He honestly doesn't know where she gets that particular trait, because he doesn't like giving up anything unless he gets something in return. It's those little realizations that do make him grateful that Ella has someone positive in her life. Someone else who isn't like him.

"What were you two celebrating?" He whispers back. He's not certain who is more surprised at how genuinely interested he was to know, him or Michael.

"Oh," Michael averts his eyes, and makes to stand up out of the rocker. He does an awkward little shuffle that reminds Cyrus that he's standing impossibly close. Too close for the younger man to fully stand. "Umm, it's nothing really."

"Michael..." Cyrus prompts. He doesn't know why he's pushing. Perhaps it's because he's picked up on how flustered it makes Michael, and a small part of him is amused when Michael is just a little bit flustered. He's a tall guy, nice athletic built, masculine, strong, handsome, but when he's flustered among other things, he has a remarkable way of appearing childlike. Perhaps it's the big brown eyes. They make him look like a sad puppy dog. An oversized sad puppy dog, but a puppy nonetheless. He somehow ended up with a kid and a goddamn puppy. The mere thought makes him want to impale himself on the white picket fence that inevitably comes next.

"I got an A- this semester," Michael mumbles shyly. His elation is unmistakable, and unlike usual, Cyrus actually feels a little happy seeing someone else happy rather than the twisted glee he experiences when he crushes someone's dreams. He may very well be getting soft in his old age. Maybe Michael and Ella, both, are having a positive effect on him.

"Congratulations. You work hard and I know you earned it," his lip curls up in a slight smile. Michael's shock and instant suspicion as he tries to decipher if Cyrus is being honest or just screwing with him, is enough to make Cyrus chuckle quietly. "I mean it."

Michael nods. Suddenly he's standing at his full height and yawning. He stretches, his arms high above his head, and his shirt rises up revealing a strip of tanned skin and rock hard abs. His eyes linger briefly before meeting those puppy dog eyes again.

Michael smirks at him, just a hint of confidence bordering on arrogance that he hasn't seen in the man since the first time they met. It's enough to make him clear his throat. He feels a little overheated, so he distracts himself by tugging on his collar and staring at a sleeping Ella, before turning around and making his way out of the room. He sees "The Princess and the Frog" book on the floor and he picks it up and places it on the nightstand.

"She wouldn't let me read it to her," Michael chuckles lightly. He realizes that Michael is so close; he can feel the man's breath on the back of his neck. "She said she only likes it when _you_ read it to her."

He can't hide a smile this time. That's his girl. They're outside in the hallway when he turns to Michael and studies him. His hair and clothes disheveled, his posture slumped like a teenager. "So you sang to her instead?"

Michal laughs, louder this time. It's full and hearty and he smiles revealing perfect white teeth and happy lines. "Oh no. If I would have sang the neighbors would have called the cops on us. I hummed to her. It was a lullaby my…" he pauses, and his smile falls into an easy grin. "My mother used to hum it to me every night." He shrugs. "It wasn't always bad."

Michael flashes a tired smile again and turns to walk down the hall towards his room. "Goodnight Cyrus."

He watches him for a while and wonders how he never paid attention before. It isn't that Michael comes across immature. Quite the contrary. He has a quiet maturity along with the quality of someone who has clearly been through some things in his life. He's just not sure how it took him so long to notice how young Michael was. How, somehow, a prostitute could have such a childlike quality…and innocence and optimism to him. Maybe it was because he was finally seeing beyond the fake confidence.

"Goodnight, Michael." He finds himself humming the lullaby as he heads for his room.

~o~

"Pweeeeeease Mymy!" he turns away from the stove just in time to see mahogany eyes pleading with him beneath long inky black lashes. He knew he would be a goner the second he turned away. The child has him wrapped around her chubby little finger.

"Okay, Ella-bee," he relents as he flings the towel over his shoulder. "One more time."

He sits in the closest chair next to her and picks up her spoon. She squeals in delight, knowing that she already won, and he tries to suppress his laughter, but one look at her sauce covered face, and he loses it completely. He starts singing their dinner song. There are rhymes and riddles and declarations of their mutual love for each other. There is a little dancing and a lot of waving the spoon around while avoiding making any spills. There is definitely a little buzzing as he imitates a bumble bee, right before the spoonful of 'p-s'getti' lands in her mouth. He bops her on the nose while she chews, and then smiles when she giggles uncontrollably after she swallows.

"Okay, finish up Ella-bee, so you can get washed up and ready for bed." He jogs back to the stove and stirs some more, before lowering the flame. He heads to the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen, when he's startled by Cyrus standing there.

"How long have you…" he takes in the older man's appearance and he tries to keep the concern and pity he feels for him, from showing. He knows that Cyrus doesn't react well to any display of emotion, let alone pity.

"Long enough," Cyrus replies quietly.

Cyrus is standing there with a dejected look on his face that reminds him of the earlier days when Cyrus the grieving widow confided in him, the anonymous prostitute turned confidant.

"Dinner will be ready shortly," he makes it clear that the dinner he's in the process of making, extends to Cyrus as well. "If you give me another twenty minutes or so to put Ella down…I can-"

"That's…" Cyrus starts his eyes faraway. "That's alright Michael, I have her." Cyrus stares in Michael's general direction but he isn't looking at him. Cyrus' voice is even and robotic, but when he turns to Ella he gives her the closest thing he ever seems to come to an actual smile.

"Come on Ella," Cyrus reaches for the toddler but pauses for a moment when he takes in all the spaghetti sauce. "You made quite a mess there didn't you?"

He opens his mouth to apologize but Cyrus waves him off without looking at him, as if he knows what he's about to say before he can even say it.

"Daddy!" Ella squeals. She reaches for Cyrus and bear hugs him the second she's in his arms.

She begins singing "Let It Go" in her squeaky little voice as Cyrus carries her out of the kitchen, and he knows that by the time she's bathed and tucked in, she will have gone through the entire Frozen soundtrack. He cringes at the thought. So far, Frozen was the only thing Ella Beene threw at him, that he couldn't quite handle, and that godforsaken song was his kryptonite. He goes back to the stove and uses a spoon to taste the sauce, but practically chokes when he hears Cyrus somewhere in the distance singing along off-key.

It's just shy of an hour later when Cyrus ambles into the kitchen awkwardly. Michael motions for Cyrus to sit at the table and he places a heaping plate of penne in front of him, with freshly baked garlic bread. He feels strange serving Cyrus. He's _serviced_ Cyrus before, but cooking for him, and sitting at a table with him, without cameras around, in the privacy of Cyrus', of _their_ , home is incredibly intimate.

"Ella wanted me to tell you goodnight," Cyrus says to the food rather than him. He senses that Cyrus is having a rough time, but he doesn't know how far he can go in being supportive. And he wants to be supportive. It dawns on him that part of him may have warmed to the son of Satan and he is alarmed by that.

He chuckles heartily as he thinks about the little girl, who has easily become the light of his life. He's always wanted children and, while the way in which it came about was not something he could have foreseen, he can't be happier with Ella's presence in his life. She is so sweet, and warm and vivacious and innocent, and when he looks at her, he's convinced that the world can't possibly be that horrible of a place. She gives him hope. She gives him an unconditional love that he's not sure he has ever experienced before, because his parents sure as hell don't love him unconditionally, and he's never been in a relationship of significance. She makes him laugh and she makes him smile, and he can't ever envision his life, his future without her in it. She's his personal sunshine, and occasionally his mini-me, and he marvels at how he doesn't have to share blood with someone to consider them his family, and she's…little Ella-bee is the only family he has.

"You love her, don't you?"

The abruptness of the question puzzles him, but he answers instantly without a second thought. "Of course," he says firmly. "How could you not?"

A small smile plays against Cyrus' lips and he nods his head and stares off into the distance as though he's confirming something.

"You made me dinner," Cyrus says, and suddenly the full force of his light eyes is bores into Michael. Cyrus puts a forkful of penne in his mouth and hums in appreciation. Michael figures it'll be the closest to a compliment he'll receive on the matter, so he smiles to himself.

"I made _us_ dinner," he replies. He's not sure what exactly Cyrus is trying to get at, but their conversations have always been nothing short of stilted or unique depending on the day.

Cyrus exhales loudly out of his nose, and sits back in the chair. He closes his eyes and exhales again, his hands clutching firmly at the table.

"Fitz," he exhales, this time a bitter chuckle escapes his lips. "The President of the United States fired me today, and now I have to figure out what the hell to do to get back into the White House, or find something else."

"I know." He can feel Cyrus' eyes boring into his, but he merely nods sympathetically and eats his penne.

"You…know…" Cyrus' voice trails off, and Michael can't help but feel a small victory that he could actually surprise the man.

"You aren't the only one who knows people," he says cryptically. He knows he shouldn't be messing with Cyrus when the man already seems down, but if he has him pegged right, and he's been around him long enough where he's picked up on some things, he's sure that Cyrus is intrigued, impressed, and reasonably distracted and that's enough to keep the fury at bay.

"I told you, I am an old man who is gripping tightly to a power that he doesn't really have." Cyrus growls and he bangs his fist on the table so hard that silverware clatters off the table and onto the floor. His breathing is erratic and he closes his eyes and breathes until he's calmed himself. "You know, usually this is the point someone reminds me of my crappy heart and tells me to calm down."

"As you said, I love Ella. The sooner you croak, the sooner she, and" he gestures to the house, "all of this, well, what's left of it since you _are_ unemployed now, is mine." He flashes a grin as he watches surprise flicker across Cyrus' face. He's just about to panic and backtrack in fear that Cyrus of all people didn't appreciate his sudden burst of dark humor, when Cyrus' lip curls up in amusement.

"I didn't realize you could be this funny," Cyrus chortles, and then he's putting another heaping forkful of penne in his mouth and humming in approval again.

"There are a lot of things you never notice about me, Cyrus," he responds truthfully.

The look Cyrus gives him is an indecipherable one, and he tries not to let it make him too uncomfortable. It took a few months, but he's finally feeling comfortable in this arrangement that they have, and if he's being perfectly honest with himself, his knack for hopeless romanticism aside, he's pretty sure that for two gay men they couldn't have a more traditional marriage than one involving a literal contract and business arrangements. Hell, his family even received a dowry.

"So you heard that I got fired and you decided to play Susie homemaker and make me dinner," Cyrus quips. There's a hint of amusement in his tone.

"No, I was in the middle of making dinner when I heard you got axed, which honestly, you're kind of a dick, so I was surprised that you ever lasted a day let alone years," he shoots back. Cyrus chokes back a genuine laugh and he smirks. "When I heard you got fired, I decided to add alcohol into the mix," he motions towards the wine and a couple of bottles of something heavier just in case and shrugs.

"You're cunning, and terrible, and a bastard Cyrus Beene," he says around a mouthful of food. "But I'm confident that you'll find a way to slither back in there. When I'm not being appalled, honestly, I'm a bit impressed," he takes a swig of his wine and glances at Cyrus, and he's surprised to see Cyrus studying him with a full smile.

"On a serious note," he puts his glass down, but fiddles with the rim to avoid eye contact. "I'm confident that you'll figure something out, but…" he clears his throat as he wills himself to look at Cyrus and give the man a warm smile. "I'll do whatever I can for us if it becomes an issue."

He's not sure if he's expressed what he was trying to or if Cyrus understood what he was trying to say. Cyrus isn't giving him much. The older man's face is guarded, a full 180 from a few seconds before. He's not offering to return to the streets. He knows that part of his life is long gone, but the internship he has pays decent considering it's an internship, and he's done well in his field and received a handful of offers that he's sure he can take on while juggling the last semester.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Cyrus asks him after a while. He's surprised to hear the man's voice crack.

"Because you're letting me," he answers honestly. Cyrus looks at him with a hint of wonder and awe, and it reminds him of the insecure man he met a year ago, who admitted that he didn't understand why people cared about him. "It works both ways Cyrus," he says quietly but with conviction. "I'm willing to be your someone too."

They don't say much as they clear the table, but Cyrus actually helps him wash and dry the dishes. He carries the remainder of the wine into the living room and plops on the couch, flicking on the television. Only when Cyrus sits beside him, does he turn to study the older man. He seems far more relaxed then a man who has just been terminated should, and a small part of him wonders if his faith in Cyrus gave him a confidence boost.

"You're going to have to make that again sometime," Cyrus says casually. "You're the first person I married who actually knows how to cook." He snorts.

"You could always try cooking yourself," he quips back. The easy banter between them is new, but he rather likes it compared to the other things.

"If it came down to that, I wouldn't have to bother paying someone to kill for me, my cooking could do the trick just fine." Cyrus laughs so hard he clutches his stomach.

"Yeah, well, as you can see my parents are the ultimate W.A.S.P.S but my father's mother was Italian, and she taught me everything she knew before she died." He thinks of his grandmother and smiles. She was the person he was closest to as a child and he was devastated when he lost her.

"If this involves baking cookies too, this arrangement of ours just might work."

"Ah," he glances at Cyrus before tearing his eyes away. "Ella and I already have at least seven batches of cookies under our belt." He snorts when Cyrus scoffs at him. "I mean, are you surprised?" He asks. "I actually like Ella…"

They both laugh, and he thinks in that moment that maybe, this is the type of thing he used to dream about after all. He feels like he's in a bubble and he wants to hold onto this momentary bliss for as long as he can before he comes crashing back down to reality. He's not sure how long they sat there in a comfortable silence, him with his eyes closed, but he suddenly feels Cyrus' heated gaze boring into him.

"I know I haven't said it…" Cyrus begins.

He can tell that Cyrus' words fall in the category of things that he doesn't quite feel comfortable saying because he's impossibly awkward Cyrus again, attempting to do and say and be normal and human. He opens his eyes and meets Cyrus' gaze and he waits.

"I-I didn't plan for this. I didn't plan for any of this. I didn't plan for…you, but," Cyrus clears his throat and shrugs. "I'm glad that you're here." He finishes in one breath, as though merely saying it took a lot out of him.

For someone like Cyrus, it probably did.

He's not sure what he feels at the moment. He knows what that admittance costs Cyrus, and he's overwhelmed because it just may be the first time that Cyrus ever has made him feel wanted or valued. He's not used to feeling wanted or valued by much of anyone. He can probably count on his hands, and he may not even require both of them, if he's being perfectly honest with himself. He bites his lip, his eyes downcast as a tuft of his thick dark hair blessedly falls over his eyes and hides his face. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if he should say anything. He's afraid that if he does say something his voice will crack or something else embarrassing will happen, and he doesn't want the reminder that next to someone like Cyrus he's a blubbering buffoon entirely too in tune and open with all of his emotions, and he hates that he wears them all on his sleeve.

"Hey…" Cyrus' voice is soft and sincere, and his hand is warm as it brushes Michael's hair aside.

The gesture is so tender that his entire body freezes in surprise before he exhales and brings his head up to face Cyrus.

"You should always keep your head up." Cyrus whispers, his voice shockingly gentle and kind. "You should never look ashamed."

He looks up at Cyrus to see the older man giving him that same indecipherable look again. When Cyrus catches him staring, he smiles. He's not sure when they got so close, but he swallows nervously and nods his head to let Cyrus know that he heard him.

"You're going into business," Cyrus begins again, intense eyes piercing his. "You do a good job at appearing confident, for the most part, but your eyes sometimes give you away."

He unconsciously averts his eyes again, but forces himself to bring them up and meet Cyrus' gaze after Cyrus clears his throat as a reminder.

"Never let anyone see that you're not used to praise or compliments," Cyrus continues. "And never let anyone make you feel like you're unworthy of kind words," Cyrus breathes, his warm breath fanning across Michael's face. "Not even me."

He waits for Cyrus to back away and give him enough space to breath but the older man doesn't. This time he's the one studying Cyrus. He wants to pretend as if he's not sure what prompted Cyrus' unsolicited friendly advice, but he's had some practice over the years at reading people. He has surprised Cyrus. That much is obvious, because Cyrus has come to respect him, and he's not a man that bothers respecting much of anyone. He's earned himself a spot in Cyrus' life where he's close enough to be respected and cared for in Cyrus' way, but disposable as a last resort. It's the closest anyone can come to Cyrus really, and Cyrus clearly is surprised that he somehow managed to get that close, when Cyrus spent a hell of a lot of time keeping him at a distance. It's enough to make him smile, chuckle even, but Cyrus is impossibly close so all he can really do is stare back at him.

"I meant what I said," Cyrus says softly. And it doesn't break the tension between them, but rather heightens it. "All of it."

He can see it coming. He's no stranger to men making moves on him. Even the gentler ones advance on him with the impatience of a schoolboy. When he bites his lip this time, Cyrus' eyes are drawn to his mouth, and the space between them is miniscule at best, and the air impossibly charged. Cyrus hesitates. The action puzzles him, and at first he thinks that maybe it's Cyrus' reservations again about James, or maybe it's the fact that Cyrus is realizing that it's him or perhaps Cyrus is rethinking it all, or maybe, maybe he's just disgusted. He maybe, maybe he just imagined all of it, and Cyrus was being nice to him in one of those rare moments, and he just misread the entire situation but…no. He didn't misread the situation. He sees it. He sees it in Cyrus' eyes, the heated gaze, and the dilated pupils. He sees the nervous, anxious twitching of Cyrus' fingers, and the gulping. He notices Cyrus swallow nervously.

He looks back into Cyrus' eyes, faces him head on, fighting every urge he has to look away, and he realizes that Cyrus' hesitation was for his benefit. Cyrus Beene is giving him the power. In his own way, he's letting him know that he's not wantonly pursuing him just because, and that he's not taking advantage of or reducing him to the services that he used to provide so long ago. This is not an exchange. This is…well, he's still not sure what it is, something along the lines of comfort between friends. It's the mere thought of that, of the intimacy that he hasn't experienced in years, that makes him exhale. He understands that here, he has a choice, and he's surmises by now that whether he accepts or declines it will not change their relationship. Their partnership, because that's sort of what it has become. It's a legit partnership and maybe even, a bit of a friendship too.

Cyrus takes his long pause as a rejection. The corners of his mouth turn down a bit, and he starts to back away, but his hand stays on Michael's shoulder. H doesn't exactly remember when Cyrus' hand ended up there, but his skin is hot beneath his Henley and the heat between them simmers. He flashes Cyrus his best goofy grin. The real one, that's all him, and not the faux cocky one that he used to use on clients, and he leans forward, his palm resting on Cyrus' forearm to hold him there.

He leans forward, just a few inches, and Cyrus' lips are on his before he can move any further. There's a hungry edge behind Cyrus' kiss. He's gentle, tender even, but he's kissing him like a man who is starved. Starved for what, he's not exactly sure, companionship, understanding, empathy, something indescribable that Cyrus himself probably can't even name. He understands it. He feels it too. He's just as hungry, he's always been hungry for something more than what life has offered him thus far.

Cyrus' fingers dig into his jawline before running up into his hair, and he's clutching the lapels of Cyrus' shirt, and his lungs are burning because he needs air but he doesn't want to pull away. He's afraid that if he pulls away the only solace he's found with another adult in the past few months will slip away too, and the thought of that makes him gasp, and cry. He can feel the wet tears as they streak across his face, and he's back to being embarrassed again.

Cyrus finally pulls away and before he can so much as meet his gaze, he feels Cyrus' warm hands wipe away at his tears before he's embraced. He's actually embraced, and it's a full embrace, not like the one before they exchanged their vows and he was clinging to Cyrus more than Cyrus was holding on to him. This time, the comfort doesn't feel forced, but rather genuine and he sighs into Cyrus' neck.

The heat of their bodies pressed against each other is as comforting and foreign as it is intimate and erotic. He may be imagining it, but he swears, he swears he feels Cyrus' lips brush across his temple, and he opens his mouth to say something. He's not even sure what, and he's not entirely confident that it won't come out deeper and gruffer, because it's been a while since he's had sex and even longer since he's been truly intimate, and against his better judgment he's caving into this rare display of the Cyrus that he actually cares about.

"It's getting late," Cyrus says after a bit. He's pulled away some, to relive both of them of the strange intoxicating effect that their close proximity has on them, but his forehead is still pressed against Michael's. It's then, that Michael knows, that whatever has taken over them, isn't just affecting him either.

Michael merely nods, and they both amble around the living room cleaning up and busying themselves, and he's waiting for the spell to be broken, but it's settled into something comfortable and semi-permanent and he doesn't know what to make of that.

It's quiet between them as they head up the stairs and stop in the hallway. He looks at the floor, but reminds himself to look up, and when he does, Cyrus is staring at him intently again.

Cyrus takes an awkward step forward, and this time it's Cyrus, who looks down, but he stops in front of him. Cyrus hesitates for a second before leaning forward and pressing a soft but lingering kiss on the corner of Michael's mouth, before he turns around and mumbles a gruff "good night."

"Good night, Cyrus," he says quietly.

He heads towards his room in the opposite direction. He doesn't know what to make of his exchange with Cyrus, or the routine that they had come to fall into. It has a practiced ease that he never could have anticipated. Their contract is for at least five years, and there was a time not too long ago, when he wasn't sure if he would survive five years of sharing a house with a monster. There was a time where the only thing that kept him from losing it completely was the precious three year old in the other room. Now, now he feels as if Cyrus and he have come to some form of understanding where maybe instead of just tolerating each other they can actually be friends.

"Michael," Cyrus' voice drifts to him, just as he has his hand on his bedroom door. He turns to see the older man doing that awkward shuffling thing he does. "You don't…" he frowns and clears his throat, his eyes falling on Michael's lips again before meeting the younger man's curious and bemused gaze. "You don't always have to stay in your room if you don't want to…" he lets it hang in the air.

Michael smiles to himself. Nods at Cyrus, and watches as the older man lingers in the doorway to his room for a long moment, as if waiting to see if he will be joined. When he sees that Michael hasn't made a move or said much, Cyrus nods jerkily at him, and slips into his room closing the door.

He's a forgiving man and a kind one too, but he's not above messing with people's heads. Especially when that person is Cyrus Beene. He honestly likes to make the man squirm whenever he can, and it's not something he can do often.

So when he slips into Cyrus' room after he's brushed his teeth and grabbed his favorite pillow from his own room, he tries not to laugh. He knows the moment when Cyrus realizes he's there, because Cyrus' entire body freezes when the bed dips under Michael's weight. Michael presses his lips to the back of Cyrus' neck and inhales. His eyes flutter closed, until mere seconds later warm firm hands are running underneath his shirt, across his abs and chest. He shivers and his lips part just long enough to let out a breathy gasp before they are captured in a searing kiss.

He's still a romantic. He still wants the big house, the white picket fence, the dogs and the kids. Two kids, to be exact. He still wants the doting husband and love. He wants real love. He wants true love. He wants to be the love of someone else's life. He wants to be that person that is loved unconditionally, that his husband can't live without. He wants it all, and he realizes it makes him sound terribly naïve more so than a hopeless romantic, but he needs to know that he didn't go through all the horrible things that he's gone through for nothing. He needs to know that there is a purpose, a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. He needs to know that he has a shot at happiness. And he knows... he knows that it's not there. He knows that Cyrus isn't the man for him, because Cyrus can't give him everything that he wants.

Cyrus can give him some of what he needs though. In a warped, twisted way he suspects that Cyrus will help prepare him for the love of his life, because maybe he's not ready for him, whoever he is just yet.

The love he has for Cyrus will never be more than that of a friend. If Cyrus lets him, that is. But he cherishes it. He values and respects it. He takes it as what it is, an opportunity. It's an opportunity to learn how to be someone's someone.

 **~o~o~o~**


End file.
